


Cinderella

by Ninjaninaiii



Series: Happily Ever After Les Mis AUs [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Cinderella Fusion, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Background Relationships, Boys in Skirts, Dancing, Disney Parody, Fluff, M/M, Male Cinderella, Trans Character, bahorel is the most bromontic prince charming, bros in love, cosette/eponine/marius
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-25
Updated: 2016-04-25
Packaged: 2018-06-04 08:10:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6649534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ninjaninaiii/pseuds/Ninjaninaiii
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A modern Cinderella!AU that nobody asked for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cinderella

**Author's Note:**

> the Feuilly and Bahorel in my head look like unhooking-the-stars': http://unhooking-the-stars.tumblr.com/post/135153130367/
> 
> though I went to see In the Heights the other day and i'm convinced Feuilly is at least part Puerto Rican.

Whoever’d designed this car had definitely had white privilege. Feuilly looked around, attempting to look as surreptitious as possible while also trying very hard not to look like someone who would steal a car and would thus be looking around surreptitiously. He was wearing his work clothes too, a dirty boilersuit, his face probably smudged with grease, and haggard by the day he’d had. Spotting nobody, he touched the fob to deactivate the security alarm, unfortunately positioned just under the wheel; i.e. right where one would be ducking to reach if trying to jack a car. The car beeped twice, nice and loud, just to let anyone near know that he was there, before starting the engine as calmly as possible. 

Only once he’d pulled away from the curb and had cleared the street did his heart stop pounding. Honestly, one of these days a policeman would be just around the corner, prepared to arrest first and ask questions later. Feuilly’s hands gripped the wheel just that slightly tighter. The car was a shitty, not-even-close-to-second-hand thing, an old VW convertible that he’d managed to buy off of his boss for a couple hundred quid after he’d fixed it and the owner had refused to pay the bill, deciding it would be cheaper to buy a new car than taking this one back. He doubted a teen would even  _ attempt  _ stealing the thing. They’d probably be able to tell at one glance the thing would be a shitty joyride; as it was it barely pushed 40. 

Still, Feuilly was a dark tan, his natural dark curls only looking light in the sunshine. He was well-built, wearing dark clothes and probably looked thuggish to someone. It had been a shitty day. He just hoped it wouldn’t get worse before getting to his second job. He planned as he drove, as if his schedule changed in any way these days. He was three minutes from home. Would shower in five, get changed, grab a cereal bar to eat in the car for dinner, drive to work. Be there half an hour early as Lady Tremaine liked, get to work on the girls’ dinner, pick them up from after-school activities, pick up Lady Tremaine, feed them, clean the girls, entertain them and be back home, hopefully, by midnight. Shower again. Wake at five. Breakfast, make lunch to take to work. Arrive at the garage at 6:30 to open the doors. Work to 2:30. Home. Shower. Eat. Head to Lady Tremaine’s. Home. Sleep. Garage, Tremaine’s. Pay rent. Work. Study on his breaks, study while the girls watched a film, study while making lunch in the mornings— 

Feuilly hit the breaks, swerving to miss a guy he totally hadn’t seen crossing the road and swore, parking on the thankfully deserted street and jogging to the man, who looked like— well, a deer in the headlights. “Shit, I’m so fucking sorry, are you okay?”

The man came to with a shake of the head, then beamed with a smile Feuilly’s brain translated as ‘radiant’. “Bro holy shit I just had my first near-death experience.”

“I’m so sorry holy shit, I thought I was a careful driver but my head, I was thinking and I didn’t see you—” 

“Hah!” The guy laughed, a full-blown, head-back kind of laugh, his hands coming to his stomach. “That must be the first time someone’s complained about not seeing me coming!” 

Feuilly could believe that.The guy was well over six foot and built like a brick shithouse, long dreads in a bun adding maybe a couple inches on top. He wasn’t dressed particularly quietly either, his vest-top an orange bright enough to rival a hi-vis one (again, how Feuilly hadn’t seen him, he wasn’t sure,) and a skirt short enough to reveal quite a lot of leg. Feuilly stopped himself from giving the poor man more of an up-and-down and ran a hand through his own hair, deciding he should attempt to calm down a bit before starting the car up again. Shit. He’d nearly killed someone. Shit.

“Bro, you ok?” Tall man asked, previously jolly expression completely gone. He had thick eyebrows, Feuilly noticed, mottled by scars.  _ A fighter? Biker? Gangster? ...in a skirt? Don’t be too quick to judge, _ Feuilly reprimanded himself. 

“Yeah, just— shit, I’m glad you’re okay.” Feuilly let out a breath, fists clamped into tight balls. 

“Okay? More than— I got to see my life flash before my actual eyes, bro, it was dope.” 

“Dope?” Feuilly echoed, voice weak. He wasn’t sure he’d take being nearly run-over with quite so much… gusto. “Right, good? Glad you got to live that.”

“Bro you don’t look well, man. You wanna get like a drink or something with me? Calm down a bit?”

Feuilly wanted that from tall, dark and handsome more than words could say. Jesus. It wasn’t every day you nearly run down a ten and had them ask you out, but… Feuilly looked at his watch. “I’m going to sound like a real asshole but I really have to go— if I’m late I’m going to get my arse fired and I can’t afford that shit—” 

“Oh bro then what are you standing here for? Dude go, go don’t let it get you down.” Handsome chucked Feuilly a thumbs up, then transformed it into a shooing motion, face split, once again, into a toothy grin. Feuilly hadn’t seen a smile as sincere as his since… since he was a kid, probably.

“I’m really fucking sorry, again, and uh, hope you don’t get run over again?”

“Bro you too, you drive safe. Not everyone is as lucky as this guy.” Handsome pointed at himself before turning and continuing to wherever he was heading, a skip in his step. 

Feuilly returned to his car, waited another half a minute to stop shaking, before continuing his journey. Today was a shit day.

-

Feuilly sat in the Tremaine’s car, one far nicer than his own, trying really hard not to yawn. Lady Tremaine had caught him yawning once and docked his pay. He wasn’t making that mistake again. He was forbidden from reading or checking his phone while waiting, too, and he honestly didn’t want the drama that could ensue from attempting to disobey her. So he sat in the school’s parking lot, waiting, staring out of the front window and telling himself he was essentially being paid to sit. He was resting. He would need the rest once the girls arrived.

He’d nearly killed a man today.

He’d been hot as fuck, too, which would’ve only added to the tragedy.

Maybe he should’ve gone to get coffee with him. He’d have been fired, but really, a guy like that… Feuilly berated himself. A guy like that was not worth getting fired for. Jesus. He was probably gay, though. Again, judging by appearances. He should have asked for his number. He could’ve used the near-accident as an excuse. Excuse? Shouldn’t he have done that anyway in case the guy wanted to sue? Maybe it was good he hadn’t. 

Like Feuilly had time to date anyway. When exactly was he going to fit handsome into his schedule? A gust of air and the two girls bustled into the backseat, already loud enough to dispel all thoughts of handsome guys. Feuilly fixed on his smile, starting up the car. 

“Good afternoon, girls,” he said, watching them in the rearview mirror until they’d fastened their seatbelts.

“Feuilly, Feuilly did you hear?!” 

“Hear what, ‘Stasia?” 

“No, I want to tell him!” Drizella interrupted, “I get to tell him!”

“You always get to tell him, it’s my turn to tell him!”

Feuilly fixed his eyes to the front, telling himself he was being paid to smile. That was all. He just needed to smile. “Rock paper scissors?” he suggested, previous experience telling him to remain impartial. Favouritism of any kind would result in violence he didn’t need on his hands.

“No, that’s not fair, it’s my turn, and anyway it’s  _ my  _ news!” Anastasia said, attempting to fix a sour gaze on Feuilly through the mirror that Feuilly was determined not to return.

“ _ Your  _ news?” Drizella replied, haughty. “Just because you heard it first doesn’t mean you can just call it  _ your  _ news, does it Feuilly?” 

“How about I think of a number,” Feuilly said, “and whoever guesses closest gets to tell me?”

The girls grimaced at one another, probably mostly for show, but nodded with a synchronicity that could still alarm Feuilly. They fought like nothing Feuilly had ever seen before, but they were most certainly sisters. “Okay, I’ve got one.”

“Seventy two,” said Anastasia.

“Four billion,” said Drizella, and Feuilly sent a quick prayer of thanks to anyone listening for the fact the girls didn’t pick the same numbers.

“Two hundred and forty three,” Feuilly answered. “Anastasia’s win.”  _ It really must be good news, _ Feuilly thought when Drizella didn’t complain, or request a best of three.

“Okay, okay, so you know the Queen turned ninety?” Anastasia asked, and Feuilly hummed an agreement, sure that that wasn’t the news. “Well she’s holding a ball for her birthday and Azelma from my class said that the Prince was going to be there looking for his future  _ consort _ .” 

“How exciting,” Feuilly said, attempting to sound vaguely interested. He had never been much of a monarchist, and knew next-to-nothing about the royal family. He knew there’d been drama a while back when a prince had been adopted by the heir-less family, and that the choice of prince had been… untraditional, but the prince had been, for the most part, keeping himself from the media. Something about attempting to have a normal life while he attended university.

“Princess Bahorel Drizella, can you imagine?” Drizella asked, dreamily.

“Stupid, names don’t work like that. You don’t get his first name. Plus I’m going to marry him so Princess Anastasia… uhm… Windsor?”

“They don’t have surnames, idiot, they’re  _ royalty _ . Plus I would take his name just to show that I loved him.”

“I bet he’d think that was creepy. Like you were trying to be him or something.”

“No he wouldn’t!” Drizella cried, pushing her sister. “Feuilly, would you think it was creepy if your wife took  _ your  _ first name?”

“I couldn’t say,” Feuilly said, not for the first time wanting to out himself, but knowing better. He wasn’t worried what the girls would say; he knew that they weren’t bad people, only spoiled, but he couldn’t take the same risk with their mother, and the girls weren’t known for keeping secrets. “Love does strange things?” he tried, hoping he wasn’t quoting the shitty movie they’d been watching the other day.

Both girls sighed, once again dreamily, fight gone from their voices, so Feuilly took that as a good sign. “When’s the ball?” Feuilly asked, turning into the carpark of Lady Tremain’s company. 

“Tonight!” the girls answered together, sheer glee in their voices.

“Tonight?” Feuilly asked, his schedule dissolving in his mind.

“Isn’t it just so exciting?” Anastasia asked. “Of course Mama said we’re to go shopping.”

“Of course,” Feuilly echoed, mentally rerouting their journey home. The ladies would want to buy from the most expensive shops, but hopefully with the time-constriction, they wouldn’t want to visit too many of the shops. Spotting the Lady exiting the building, Feuilly jumped out, opened the car door for her, and closed it again once she was seated.

“Afternoon, Ma’am.”

“Mummy we told Feuilly about the ball, isn’t it just  _ so  _ exciting?” Drizella said, Anastasia nodding her agreement.

“Quite so,” the Lady said with a small quirk of the lips. “I gather you know of our plans to shop?” she asked, and Feuilly answered affirmative as they set off, heading towards the boutiques that lined the richer streets of the city.

-

“When you’ve driven us there, you’re to come back and sweep the entire house. We don’t know if we shall have visitors joining us back from the ball,” the Lady explained as Feuilly helped to fix the girls’ dresses, attaching ornaments and jewellry as directed.

“Yes, Ma’am,” Feuilly said, really just glad he wouldn’t have to go to the ball to pretend to be their knight or butler or something. It was going to be a longer night that he was prepared for, but he had his study materials in the car; he could finish cleaning as fast as he could and get some good solid hours to study from it. 

“That means bathrooms scrubbed, beds dressed. The entire house, Mr Feuilly.”

“Of course, Ma’am.” 

“Oh, and I split a bag of lentils earlier. Would you mind clearing it up?”

“Of course, Ma’am. The hob?”

“No, the fireplace in the living-room. But Lucifer will be sleeping in the room, so no hoover. Use your hands.”

Feuilly, master of returning steely gazes, didn’t so much as blink. “Yes, Ma’am.”

“Good. You shall pick us up at two A.M. or later, depending on whether I call.”

“...Yes, Ma’am.” By the look on her face, Lady Tremaine had caught the slight hesitation.

“That won’t be a problem, will it, Mr Feuilly? You know I can always find a replacement. Jobs as well-paying as mine are hard to come by these days…”

“No problem, Ma’am.” Feuilly felt his heart pick up and hoped the Lady couldn't smell fear. 

-

The amount of cars at the castle was insane. 

Feuilly was just glad he didn’t have to wait outside with the rest of the drivers, who looked like they were about to start a long night of cards. 

-

Once he got back to the Tremaine’s house he started with laundry, making his way through from bathrooms to ceilings to floors until, just before ten, he was finished. Nearly. 

The living-room he’d ignored till last, hoping to have made enough noise Lucifer might have been drawn away, and Feuilly could use the hoover. No such luck. 

Feuilly poked his head through the door. Fucking lentils everywhere. What the fuck. Who even bought lentils these days? In fact, Feuilly was in charge of cooking their fucking meals, he knew for a fact they didn’t have lentils. Was this some sort of torture? Punishment? For what? Feuilly hadn’t fucked up to his knowledge— so Lady Tremaine was just a dick? Jesus. 

He shot a glance at Lucifer, who was watching him from his seat on the sofa. Feuilly considered bringing out the hoover just to spite them, but knowing this family, it was more than likely the cat could fucking talk or communicate in morse code or some shit. Or maybe she bugged the house. That was pretty likely. Got to make sure the maid doesn’t steal their jewellry.

He sighed, put down the bucket and got to work picking up lentils. He wondered whether it would be faster to go outside, literally train a flock of pigeons and make them peck the fuckers up. Or if mice could be trained to do the same. Combeferre probably knew; he’d have to ask him tomorrow. He was going to be exhausted tomorrow. ...but then again, what was new? He’d have overtime pay, at least. He might be able to afford fruit for his breakfast. He thought about the strawberries he’d washed and hulled for the girls earlier, how they’d looked sweet and flavourful. He determined to let himself buy some for his hard work today.

Feuilly was surprised to find it didn’t take nearly as long as he’d thought it would, the clock only chiming half ten when he picked up the bucket, now full. At a loss as to where to take them, he took them outside, thinking to put some of the lentils on a bird-table. Maybe he could get started on training his chore-doing pigeon army.

There was a loud bang, like a firework going off too close. “What the— fuck?!” Feuilly leapt back, fists in the air in defence, slack jawed at the glowing fucking magical-looking lady currently standing in the garden. “What the fuck?!”

“Not the usual response,” the woman said, hands on hips. 

“Holy fuck, ‘Ponine you scared the shit out of me.” 

“Feuilly, I’m your Fairy God Mother!” Éponine said, grinning as she held out another party popper.

“Dude you can’t be here, if they catch you nicking their wine they’ll have my head.”

“I’m not here to nick shit,” Ponine said, coming closer. “I’m here to grant your wish.”

“Great.” Feuilly emptied some of the bucket into a birdfeeder. “So I can go home?”

“You can go to the ball!” Ponine held out a ticket, a piece of card that looked like it had probably been encrusted in gold and written by a guy with an actual quill. 

Feuilly sighed, checking his watch. “Nah, not for like. Another 5 hours. Knowing her, she’s probably not going to call until three just ‘cos of that hesitation earlier.”

“Feuilly, I’m saying you can  _ attend the ball _ . You can dance, and enjoy yourself for the night. Perhaps meet the prince…” 

This time Feuilly’s laugh made his sides hurt, laughing enough to cause him stitches. “Right. Well uh. Sorry to disappoint but if you can’t let me go home, I’d rather stay here and study.”

“There’s free food at the ball,” Ponine said, wafting the card.

Feuilly squinted. “What’s the catch?”

“Marius and Cosette are gonna be there and you need to make sure they dance. They were all ‘but we can’t go without you’, when I said I wouldn’t come and made some stupid vow about not having fun or dancing or shit when I wasn’t there.”

“Why didn’t you sent Azelma or someone? Isn’t she in ‘stasia’s class?”

“Like Azelma listens to what I say,” Ponine said, sounding bitter for all of five seconds. “Plus, I’d already bought this, and you’re the only one it’ll fit.” Ponine spirited a clothing bag out from somewhere, shoving it at Feuilly. “I’ll even drive you there so you can like quick-change when your evil-stepmother calls.”

“She’s not my stepmother,” Feuilly said, already unzipping the bag to get a glimpse of the suit. It was a pastel blue, and soft, from what Feuilly could tell. “Why do you have a suit in my size?” Feuilly asked.

“Magic,” Ponine replied. “You gonna change or what? You’ll miss the first dance and I want Marius and Cosette to dance by the third song at least, or they’ll be too fucking stubborn about leaving.

Feuilly looked at the ticket, addressed to one Baron Thénard. “I look nothing like your dad. Don’t they have like... ID checks or something?”

“It’ll be fine,” Éponine said, which didn’t really answer the question. “It’s not like my dad’s supposed to be there anyway.”

“Great. So I’m sneaking in on a forged ticket for a forged person? To make your partners dance?”

“Dude, there’s probably like caviar there or some shit.” Éponine thought for a second. “And buffets of fruit. Fresh, probably-just-picked berries.”

Feuilly went to get changed.

-

Well it was certainly a ball. Everyone looked bourgeois and fancy, there was an entire orchestra in one corner of the room, and Feuilly had never seen quite so many white people all in one place. He glanced around the room but couldn’t spot the Tremaines, which was… probably a relief, at least for the moment. He also couldn’t spot the food, which was the real tragedy. He walked around the perimeter of the dance hall, hoping at least one wall might be lined with aperitifs or something, but sorely disappointed. 

The smell of food was getting stronger though, especially as he came to a room in the corner, not marked in any way that might suggest it was a no-go area. Feuilly decided he’d take the risk and ducked into the corner room, following the smells.

“Oh hey, bro!” 

Talk about fucking coincidences. “You,” Feuilly said, feeling like the world was probably punishing him for something. “You’re here.”

“Too right, wouldn’t miss the party of the century,” Handsome said, looking even more ridiculously hot in his military uniform. Feuilly had no idea what any of the things hanging off of the guy’s jacket meant, but a lot of them looked shiny and impressive, so the guy was probably a knight or something ridiculous like that. Handsome’s dreadlocks were in a fancier twist now, and he looked… majestic. More majestic than he had in a vest and skirt earlier, anyway. It might have been hard to reconcile the two images together, except Handsome still exuded his ‘bro’ aura.

“He shouldn’t be in here,” said a voice to Handsome’s left, a particularly angelic dude with scowl-lines that looked permanent.

“Dude, Enjolras, this is the guy I was talking about, the one who nearly ran me over earlier.”

Enjolras didn’t look… particularly  _ happy  _ with the introduction, a taut smile on his face as he held out his hand. The guy looked like a grade-A asshole but, to be fair, Feuilly had nearly killed this guy’s friend, so he was probably in every right to think Feuilly was a shit.

“Enjolras,” the man said as they shook, “Palace guard. You really shouldn’t be in here,” Enjolras said. “In fact, you shouldn’t have been allowed in here. How did you get in?”

“I just… walked through that door,” Feuilly said, because it hadn’t been that hard to do. He glanced around, finding they were in some sort of backstage area.

“Dude bro so like what brings you here?” Handsome asked in an obvious attempt to defuse some of the anger in his friend’s brow.

“That’s… a pretty long story.”

“Ooh, mystery boy, I like it,” Handsome said, just slightly louder than Enjolras’ reply of “suspicious is what it is.”

“Oh hey, is that R’s voice?” Handsome asked, going quiet for a second. “Oh shit, sounds like he’s about to start a fight with one of the foreign emissaries—” 

Enjolras was gone before Handsome’s last word. 

“Kid has a crush like nothing else,” Handsome said with a wink. “Dude’s one of my best bros but seriously needs to chill, you feel?”

“Of course he would have a crush on you,” Feuilly said. “I mean. Look at you.”

Handsome grinned like he’d just won the lottery. “A crush on R, not me,” he explained, and Feuilly. Well. He could probably go and run himself over with his own fucking car. “But I appreciate that you would appreciate this beauty.” Handsome flexed underneath his uniform, the material seeming to stretch far beyond what it should probably be capable of, Handsome kissing his biceps as he did.

“Ugh I wouldn’t have said shit if I knew you were going to be an asshole about it,” Feuilly said, attempting to look skeptical instead of mortified. There was something about the way Handsome carried himself that suggested the whole bro-routine was a parody, something he’d started to do one day to piss someone off and that had stuck.

Handsome laughed again, the way he had the first time, like he’d honestly never heard of self-control before. It made Feuilly’s entire being feel light. Someone official was starting to say something over the speaker and Handsome’s eye lit up. “Hey Ginger, do you dance?”

“Ginger?” Feuilly asked. “What?”

“Your hair. It’s like. Brown. But also like sweet ass honey tea with… ginger in it. Carrots. Makes me want to eat it.”

This guy was either trying to hit on him, or a massive fucking idiot. Probably the latter. Feuilly thought about the ballgowns he’d seen gliding across the floor, the violins swelling and shit, though not yet dancing when he’d passed earlier. “Yeah, but not like how they probably dance,” he said, imagining himself among one of the ball-dancers. His abuela’d probably rise from the grave to laugh at him.

“Oh bro it’s like real simple.” Handsome was suddenly in his space, one hand on Feuilly’s waist, the other holding Feuilly’s own. Handsome looked down at his feet and Feuilly did the same, completely at a loss what else to do. “One, two three, one two three,” Handsome said as he stepped, leading Feuilly as he did so. It was simple enough… Feuilly put his spare hand on Handsome’s shoulder, and Handsome looked back up. “You got it!” 

Feuilly couldn’t quite decide if Handsome’s tone was sarcasm, or glee held behind carefully constructed sarcasm.

Handsome let him go with a smile. “How are you with like. Being in public?” 

Feuilly frowned. “Decent?”

“Great.” Handsome bowed. 

Feuilly had the sudden and overwhelming urge to run away. This seemed like a very… dangerous place to be. He was starting to piece parts of the puzzle together, and he didn’t really like the way everything was falling into place. He’d just been looking for the free food. He hadn’t meant to go… wherever he was, backstage, or whatever. 

Handsome held out his hand. “Dance with me?”

Feuilly looked at the hand. As he took it, the curtain he’d taken for a wall-hanging pulled apart and… and yeah. That would be the queen. Oh her throne. Feuilly’s hand was taken into Handsome’s, Feuilly feeling Handsome’s warm, dry hands encompass his. They were soft, his fingers long. It made Feuilly cringe to think how his own must feel: probably sweaty, calloused and pudgy. 

“Bro you must work hard at that garage,” Handsome said, playing with his fingers, playing with  _ Feuilly _ ’s fingers, with the queen— the  _ queen  _ watching, with the entire room in silence.

“Holy shit you’re Bahorel,” Feuilly said, wondering whether he could be executed for calling the prince an asshole. Probably. That was before even thinking about how Feuilly had literally  _ nearly fucking run over the future King with a shitty VW convertible _ . “I nearly fucking killed the future king,” Feuilly said, feeling like he was going to be sick. “Holy fuck, no wonder Enjolras hates me.”

“You might want to get used to that feeling for the next five minutes,” Bahorel advised. “Because this party’s about to find out their beautiful black prince is gay as fuck for a beautiful stranger. When I bow, bow but like slightly less than me.” 

Bahorel bowed, Feuilly mimicked as instructed, and as the music started, Bahorel’s hand came to sit on his waist again, Feuilly resting his own on Bahorel’s shoulder. “This is ridiculous,” Feuilly said, feeling like he was going to get assassinated on the spot. “Is this even legal?”

“What, two bros dancing?”

“No, you, using your first dance to dance with someone like… me.”

“Dude they already have to accept their king’s gonna be made of beautiful melanin.” 

“First gay, black monarch with dreads?” Feuilly asked, “With a consort from the Caribbean islands.”

“Damn straight.” Bahorel grinned. 

Feuilly snorted. “They wish.” As they spun, Feuilly caught a glimpse of the room and Bahorel’s attempts at distracting him were ruined. “Fuck, they’re all staring.”

“‘Cos we’re a sight to behold,” Bahorel said eyes not leaving Feuilly.

“Yeah, maybe you are.”

“Bro. You don’t understand how fucking hot you are in that suit.”

“I have one question,” Feuilly said, slowly, regaining his ability to speak after a moment of being completely dumbstruck.

“Shoot.”

“Are you still going to call me ‘bro’ when I’m king?”

“You don’t get to be King, bruv, you get the sick-ass title of ‘prince consort’.”

“Right… so are you still going to call me ‘bro’ when I’m Prince consort?”

“You can bet your ginger ass I’m going to call you bro.” Bahorel’s hand tightened its grip on Feuilly’s waist in what was probably an encouraging gesture. “You evaded it, so I’ll say it again. You’re beautiful.” The sudden lack of ‘bro’ made the sentiment shoot straight through Feuilly and he felt himself go weak. He must be fucking exhausted to let something so simple affect him so much.

“Thanks.” Feuilly cleared his throat, trying to sound like he wasn’t being swept off his fucking feet by a prince. “Not too bad yourself. The uniform suits you.” Feuilly decided the mindless complimenting would probably turn the remainder of their conversation hesitant and embarrassing, so he changed tactics. “The skirt showed more leg though.”

The smile on Bahorel’s face seemed endlessly wide, his eyes soft as he honest-to-God chuckled; high, soft and sweet. “I can never find one long enough, but really who am I to withhold my killer thighs from the world?”

“What, an entire kingdom and you can’t find a tailor to make you a skirt?” Feuilly raised an eyebrow at Bahorel’s expression, for the first time seeming uncertain. “You haven’t asked?” he tried, softly, not wanting to sound judgemental. Hell, he was talking to a guy who’d probably spent most of his childhood hiding from the tabloids; he’d probably not have survived a skirt scandal.

“I’m working on it,” Bahorel promised. “Though I can’t say you’ll get to see me in a wedding dress.”

“You’ve got more balls than me,” Feuilly said, regretting it as he said it. “To go outside when anyone could spot you?”

“Don’t you know?” Bahorel asked, “All black people look the same.”

Now that he said it, Feuilly was starting to remember the amount of fake-ass articles of paparazzi claiming to have seen Bahorel doing any manner of illegal things, photos of guys blatantly not Bahorel splashed across front-covers.

“Well hit me up next time you need a tailor. I’ve sewn enough skirts in my time.”

“Tinker and a tailor?” Bahorel asked. “Please don’t tell me you’re a soldier and spy too?” 

“Well if I told you that…” Feuilly attempted to freeze his expression as he remembered how they’d met. “I’d have to run you down in a shitty convertible.”

“Bro. I don’t think I’m going to be allowed to cross the road by myself for the next decade because of you. Enjolras has promised he’s never allowing me outside privileges.”

“That sounds…” Feuilly frowned. “Like I’ve really fucking messed up your life. Like because of me you don’t get to enjoy your privacy? Shit, man, I’m so sorry.” Feuilly tried to stop, feeling the weight of the situation like he shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t be allowed to dance with a guy whose life he’d inadvertently destroyed.

“Bro. It meant I got to meet you.”

It was suddenly too much for Feuilly. All of the real implications of the situation were catching up to him, dispelling the magic, the romance. Feuilly shouldn’t be allowed to ruin this guy’s life any further. He caught the tune of the melody and thanked everything that the number sounded like it was soon to end. “Thank you for the dance,” Feuilly said as they slowed together, Bahorel’s smile too sincere to look at directly. “And sorry, again. ...I really have to go.” Before Bahorel could convince him with his beautiful smile, or his beautiful voice, Feuilly pulled his hand from Bahorel’s, bowed, and made a bee-line for the exit. And… being the centre of attention, the crowd parted for him, whispering as he left.

Once he’d climbed the stairs and the large ballroom doors had shut behind him, Feuilly picked up his pace, needing to be out of the place as soon as possible. As he started to run, his pocket started vibrating. He slowed slightly to answer. “Feuilly? We need picking up. Be outside in half an hour.” 

Feuilly wiped his hand over his face. He’d forgotten they’d have been here too. “Of course, Lady Tremaine.” He thanked Éponine’s foresight in packing his normal clothes in the back of the Tremaine’s’ car. Not that he was under any illusion that they hadn’t seen him, but he still wanted to change, not feeling right staying in the ridiculous clothes. He stripped off his jacket as he exited the palace, tucking it under one arm as he unlaced his shoes, bounding down the steps to the drive. A clatter of the doors behind him made him jump, dropping one shoe: he watched as it skittered away in the opposite direction and… well, he would never need it again. Éponine had more than likely nicked it, so it was probably just as well Feuilly wasn’t caught with the things. When he reached the car, he threw his other shoe and jacket into the boot, stripping off his shirt and trousers and replacing them with a quickness he’d managed to get down to pat in his years of foster care and multiple jobs.

By the time the Tremaines opened the back door, piling in nearly exactly half an hour later, Feuilly had gone through the various stages of emotional wreckage before, ultimately, pulling himself together. Joy at the experience, fear at the consequences, regret at having gone along with any of it, hatred at being made into the centre of attention, denial that it had even happened. It seemed so long ago that Éponine had shoved the invite at him…

Marius and Cosette. Shit. His whole purpose for going and he hadn’t even attempted to look for them. Christ, he was a mess. 

“Feuilly?” Anastasia’s voice dragged him out of his thoughts. “Are you okay?”

“Of course!” Feuilly said, an instant smile appearing on his lips. “Did you enjoy the ball?”

“I was kind of sad we didn’t get to dance with the prince, but—” Drizella said, the rest of her sentence cut off by what Feuilly was assuming a light slap to the wrist from her mother. So they were going to ignore that it had happened? Feuilly could do that.”But… the music was nice, and everyone looked really pretty in their dresses.”

“We looked the best, though,” Anastasia added, “Especially mummy. Mummy’s friend kept complimenting her… though he was kinda creepy for an old man…”

“Girls, don’t you talk about him that way to anyone else, you hear me?” Lady Tremaine said, her voice revealing nothing. 

The rest of the drive was noticeably silent. As soon as they arrived home, the girls were directed to bed, Feuilly was dismissed and, a quarter to one in the morning, he collapsed into his bed. Maybe he’d died in a car crash earlier, he thought as he drifted off, too exhausted to be restless. And now he was living in a purgatorial dreamland where mechanics danced with princes.

-

Feuilly hadn’t expected his face in the newspaper the next morning. ‘In’ was generous. Plastered over the front page was more appropriate. His face, smiling up at the face of the future king. Just looking at his expression, he knew exactly what Bahorel had just said: “Bro. You don’t understand how fucking hot you are in that suit.” The memory of it made him cringe, now that he knew how fucking dopey it made him look.

His phone buzzed, snapchat letting him know that Éponine had sent him a dozen snaps in the last thirty seconds. He tapped through them all, finding that she’d gone straight to a newsagent’s and had snapped his face from the covers of every single one of them.

As his face flashed past, he caught glimpses of various headlines: ‘MYSTERY LOVER?’ ‘CONSORT CHOSEN?’ ‘F**K, MARRY, KILL?’ ‘KING QUEER’. Feuilly hoped to God he was black enough that people wouldn’t be able to recognise him. He didn’t want to know what articles like ‘King Queer’ said about him. Even the less overtly racist ones would probably get something wrong.

But what was there to get wrong? The story they knew was that the prince had danced with a stranger, who had then run off. Nobody seemed to know who Feuilly was, so… surely they would just forget about him by next week? Surely Bahorel would have picked his true consort by then.

Feuilly got ready for work, not replying to Éponine or Combeferre, who had also started to send messages. 

The guys at work… were definitely avoiding looking at him. He wondered whether they didn’t want to ask whether it was him in case they seemed racist. “Oh hey so this brown kid was dancing with the black prince was that you?” By lunch time, Feuilly had half-convinced himself that Éponine had photoshopped the pictures of the newspapers. No-one had even mentioned the dance, no-one had tried anything to get Feuilly to reveal all… 

After work, he drove home, showered, got changed, glanced at the newspaper on his kitchen countertop. That was definitely his face. It was a saturday, he didn’t have to pick the girls up from school, instead heading straight towards their house.

He was unlocking the front door when a procession of black cars pulled into the drive.

After a day of expecting such a sight, to have it finally happen was… ridiculously overwhelming. He could barely concentrate on opening the door and placing his bag inside: what on earth was the etiquette for this? Did he go inside and pretend he hadn’t seen them arrive? Did he stand on the doorstep and bow? He opted for the latter, but keeping the door open, in case he was expected to dive in and answer it for them.

Feuilly attempted to pretend like he couldn’t see Bahorel jumping out of the car, followed quickly by Enjolras and an Indian guy in the same outfit, though looking far less pristine than his counterpart. His expression was a lot more amused than Enjolras’ was, though, and something about the way the two men stood by the car as Bahorel approached told him that the Indian guy was probably ‘R’. 

“How the fuck did you find me?”

It hadn’t been exactly what Feuilly had planned on saying, but it was all he could muster as Bahorel reached the top step, standing only a couple of centimetres from Feuilly. 

“Okay so your mum’s like super good friends with this guy called Guillenormand? And he was talking to this dude… Poncey? Pon… Pontmercy?” 

“Marius?”

“Yeah, yeah, and so when you left Marius came up to me and was like ‘bro you were dancing with my bro man hmu some time’ and I was like ‘yo dude sweet cos I totally forgot to even ask for his name’ and then Guillenormand started chatting shit about you so Marius had to go deal with that guy and then like. Muslim girlfriend?”

“Cosette,” Feuilly supplied.

“Cosette was like ‘yo shit he’s called Feuilly Tremaine, good choice, you two are beautiful and should have beautiful metaphorical slash adoptive babies together.’” Taking in Feuilly’s overwhelmed expression, Bahorel smiled. “Also you work at the garage like two minutes away from where you nearly ran me over… you were wearing your uniform.” Bahorel touched his chest, the position where Feuilly would usually wear his name badge. “Anyway, I found this.”

Feuilly looked down to where Bahorel was holding a shoe. His shoe, a pastel blue to match his suit from yesterday. “Oh. Thank you.” 

“Is it yours?”

Feuilly nodded as he took it.

“Are you sure? You’re not going to try it on?” Bahorel asked.

“What, like there was more than one pair of pastel blue brogues at the ball yesterday?” Feuilly put the shoe in the hallway, feeling ridiculous holding it. 

“...You left so fast yesterday, I didn’t know whether I’d said something shitty or something.”

“No, no, it was me, I thought… you were better off without me.”

“Bro. A solid ten like you who likes a guy in a skirt and dances with him in front of the queen of the country? I ain’t letting the man of my dreams slip away.” Bahorel was hit with a realisation. “Unless you want to, of course. Trust, if you want out, at any point, I can make it happen, I can leave and you’ll never hear about me or the dance or anything again.” 

Not knowing how exactly to answer, Feuilly was saved by footsteps above. “Mr Feuilly, are you not going to introduce your guest?” 

Feuilly tuned at the voice, blanching. “Lady Tremaine, yeah, yes, sorry, Lady Tremaine, Prince Bahorel.”

“A pleasure,” Bahorel said like it was quite the opposite.

“I had no idea my Feuilly had friends in such high places,” the Lady said from her position, not moving from her perch on the balcony above them.

“I’m sorry… I know you wanted one of your daughters to dance… But I honestly didn’t know him before the dance—”

“Feuilly… you understand the laws in our country allow people of the same sex to marry?”

“Uhm.”

“Don’t you forget that I’m still your mother,” the Lady said. 

“Foster,” Bahorel said, bristling. “Is she going to cause a problem, Feuilly?”

Feuilly rolled his eyes, Bahorel literally bulking himself up to look intimidating. “Chill, you don’t have to do that knight in shining armour crap. I won’t forget, ma’am. I’ll always be grateful for what you’ve done.” 

The Lady nodded, once, before gracing them with a brief but rare smile and disappearing back upstairs.

“Do you want to.. Come in?” Feuilly asked, realising it probably wasn’t polite to make the prince stand on the doorstep.

Bahorel followed him into the house, leaning occasionally to look at photos and decorations with unrestrained curiosity. “So what’s her deal, then?”

Feuilly fell into a sofa, pointing at the other for Bahorel’s use. “It’s complicated. She just wants what’s best for her daughters. I get it.” 

“Calling herself your mum doesn’t bother you?”

“I was a foster kid here for a decade until I turned eighteen. Then she asked if I wanted to continue cleaning and shit.” Feuilly glanced at Bahorel and anticipated his question. “She pays me more that she could.”

“Emotional blackmail ain’t cool, bro, not if she’s gonna extort money from you.”

“She wouldn’t do anything so unseemly,” Feuilly said, knowing it as he said it. “She would never ask for money, she’s got too much pride. She will want invites to royal parties though, especially once the girls are old enough to date.”

“Do you want that from them? External ties of thanks?”

“I’d do it for the girls.”

“They good to you?”

Feuilly nodded, instantly. “When they were really small, they used to call me Cinderella, because…” Feuilly glanced at Bahorel. “Dead name was Ella. But they didn’t even blink when I told them my name was Feuilly, then when I started using male pronouns… so yeah. They’re spoilt, and their mother schemes like a Disney villain or some shit, but… they’re not bad people.”

Bahorel’s guarded expression relaxed, seeming to accept Feuilly’s strange family on Feuilly’s word. “So, Feuilly, what do you want to be when you’re older?”

“What, is this the courtship interview?”

“Bro, we’re passed courtship, we have tabloid exclusives.” Bahorel sat back as if he’d belonged to Feuilly’s house forever. “I wanna know about you, man.”

Feuilly snorted, digging his hands in his pockets. “Hadn’t really thought about it.”

“Don’t buy it bro,” Bahorel said, hands behind his head. “You look like you’re going places.”

“What, like dancing with future kings at balls?”

Bahorel grinned, clicking one finger as he pointed at Feuilly. “Gotta dream bigger, bro.”

“I’m… I’m on an Open University course right now… I couldn’t afford the tuition fees anywhere else,” he said in a rush, trying not to sound like a tragic mess. He didn’t want Bahorel’s pity. He risked a glance and Bahorel seemed… accepting. “I’m studying Politics.”

“Ugh.” Bahorel mimed gagging. “My folks are going to think you’re perfect.”

The sudden terror Feuilly was feeling transformed into raw confusion. “What?”

“They tried to send me to uni, full ride etcetera, trying to get me to study law, but yeah… that sucked, so I skipped most of my classes.” Bahorel sighed. “Get a load of my privileged ass, complaining about ditching when you’d probably…” Bahorel stopped, deciding not to pursue that particular minefield quite yet. “Anyway, they’ll be pumped that beautiful stranger is actually interested in politics.”

“I’m not sure they’d like the politics I have an interest in,” Feuilly said, tentative. Now he was thinking about it, dating Bahorel seemed like an extremely bad idea.

“Go on, impress me with your social justice,” Bahorel said, a glint in his eyes. “No,” he said, translating Feuilly’s look, “I’m not taking the piss.”

Feuilly squinted, still not sure. “Refugee crisis.”

“Good start.”

“Foreign policies are abysmal and the treatment of refugees belongs to the shitty system of the nineteenth-century.” Feuilly paused. “We need revolution.” He wondered if monarch were allowed to be revolutionaries.

By the look Bahorel was giving him, that was probably a yes. “What’s your favourite colour?”

“So you start with the existential and make your way to smalltalk?” Feuilly shrugged. “Red? Why?”

“Wondered if it’d be pastel blue.”

“Because of the suit? No my friend… uh. Acquired it for me.”

Bahorel put a hand over his heart, looking faux-pained. “Dude, you could have been the pastel blue to my pastel pink, okay, but you’ve crushed my romantic heart with your stupid ‘red’.” 

“Wow, I’m sorry you have to go through such an ordeal.”

“Bro. I’m trying to be bromantic.” Bahorel attempted a pout, the effect ruined when his phone chimed. He pulled it out and his face cracked when he read the message. “Grantaire says to use protection.” Bahorel stuffed his phone in his pocket.

“Grantaire the dude who looked like he’s been teasing you since the moment he saw us dance?”

“Dude, you got it in one, that’s R. I think I’ve heard every pun to do with being run over.”

“This is going to be my legacy, isn’t it.”

“Dude it’s going in our marriage vows. It’s going on my tombstone. Our oldest kid is going to have the initials V. W.”

“Marriage, kids, you don’t even know if I’m going to say yes to… whatever, anything yet.” Feuilly didn’t need a reply to see the effect of his words. “I can’t stop working right away or whatever, I still have a contract with the garage, and I don’t want to give up looking after the girls until I know I can get a good replacement…” 

Bahorel nodded. “You’ll have to think about it, but I have contacts in places you might want to work, who’ll want to hire you even before they know who you are to me. It’s a difficult concept, but you’ll probably find it hard to get used to the whole ‘riding on the coattails’ thing. People aren’t going to be nice to you.” 

Feuilly nodded. “I’ll just have to work harder to make sure they know you aren’t shit when I’m around.”

“Too damn straight,” Bahorel grinned. His phone chirped again and he rolled his eyes. “I should probably go… else I’ll have to peel E and R off each other and have to deal with that awkward shit.” Bahorel stood, Feuilly following him up. “This is my number,” Bahorel said as he passed Feuilly a business card. “Private line, unhackable, my eyes only.” He winked as he said it. “Sexting safe.”

Feuilly hit him. Then he pulled Bahorel down into a kiss. “You fucking wish.”

-

Bahorel had been right, of course. Feuilly had had a lot of shit written about him in the last couple of years, and people were still skeptical that a guy ‘like him’ could do well in politics, but there were some positives. One being the privilege of belonging to Bahorel’s heart. The other (and far more crucial,) being Feuilly’s new-found ability to buy strawberries any time he wanted them. 

**Author's Note:**

> it's exam season so obviously i'm starting a series of disney aus. next are probably valvert... or more feuilly. because i love him. 
> 
> ninjaninaiii.tumblr.com


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